The flowers are not flowers, the mist is not mist. It comes in the middle of the night and goes away at dawn. It comes like a spring dream in a short time, and goes like a morning mist with nowhere to find it. In the rolling world of mortals, there are so many pairs of deep eyes that want to see through it, but they still can't see through it.
If it weren't for the bloodline of Snow Fox, she would have been a very good girl; if it weren't for the vagaries of the world, he could have fulfilled his promise; if it weren't for his status as the patriarch, he could have lived a free and easy life... They were all half-finished flowers, still waiting to bloom after despair, but not wanting life to change like a dream.
Love and betrayal, reality and dreams, kindness and insidiousness, indifference and tenderness, who is controlling all of this! After all the events in the world, is this the last lotus flower?
History only records heroic words, but does not care about how every inch of lovesickness lasts until death, or how it is crushed into mud.